milliways_bar | (no subject)

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You know, it's really amazing what a reunion can do to one's mood. For instance, Ace was pretty wreaked earlier today. Now, however, she's humming happily (and terribly off-key) as she works on fixing one of her little timers. She might play fast and loose with timing sometimes, but being off by a half-minute is a bit much. She's taken over a table to aid in this project, with all of her bits of wiring and electronics spread out all around. Ace is a big believer in using all space available.

That, or she's a big fan of messes.

Hush.

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"Hello."

It takes one... two... three carefully planned steps to get from his table to her table; luckily he doesn't spill a drop of coffee on the way.

"How is Ace the Counfounding today?" Glancing down at the bits and pieces on the table, he's almost tempted to clear them away, but this is Ace's table and not his spell workshop; she's certainly entitled to her own clutter.

"Ace the Counfounding. That almost sounds like a title. I wonder what'd happen if I tried that at UNIT?" Ace muses, then snorts, shaking her head. "They'd agree of course. 'Specially Bambera. Hullo Howl, long time, no see."

Sometimes getting Ace to answer a question is like pulling teeth. She's only living up to the name, you see.

"It has been a while, hasn't it. Might I clear a small space for this cup? I've been..."

Trying to sober up unsuccessfully.

"...out with some friends, in Swansea, and we stopped at a pub and then another, and then one or seven more after that, and I tripped in here and I don't want to be the one responsible for destroying whatever it is you're doing here, because I'm certain it's been a lifetime's worth of hard work. What is it, anyway?" Balancing the coffee cup precariously in one hand, he reaches down and picks up a some kind of something he doesn't recognise remotely.

That would be because that little bit of electronic fluff is from a little planet Ace is terribly fond of that humans don't tend to wander across. She does get stared at quite a lot when she goes shopping there.

"Sure, I'll just..." She sweeps it into an untidy pile at one end of the table. "There. M'just sortin' out some timers that failed in their purpose in life."

"Really."

Howl sets down the cup ever so carefully, pushing it towards the centre of the table. Cups on the edge spill, Howell. It's his sister's annoying nagging whinging voice; it isn't till after he shakes his head that he realises what a mistake that was. His hands go to either side of his head like a vice, fingers meeting at the top.

"Ouch."

Ace eyes Howl warily, setting the timer and screwdriver down.
"Howl, are you alright? D'y'want me t'find a doctor or sommat?" Head shaking shouldn't hurt, after all.

"Guinness." He nods sagely. "One pint too many, my darling pyromaniac. Stout plus brain cells equals..."

There's no need to fill in the rest of the sentence; Ace of all people would know what happens. It's an explosion, but one on a cellular level.

"I'll be fine come morning. You're sweet to be concerned." On any normal day, the word sweet probably wouldn't be the one he uses to describe Ace. But tonight with the way his head pounds, it sounds perfectly legitimate.

"Call it self-preservation instinct. Drunk wizard types tend t'be hazardous, in my experience." If only because she tends to end up with not nearly enough clothing. Or roaring drunk herself. She's not sure which scenerio she prefers, really.

"Want a pint?"

He certainly doesn't mind being a hazard.

"My treat." It's a genuine enough offer; his coin pouch is full and the night is young.

And there's the small matter that he's desperately fond of Ace. He just won't admit it to anybody.

"Sure, I'll go a round, but are y'sure y'can handle another y'self? I mean, it's up t'you, but I've found conversations are much more fun when y'not passed out." She teases cheerily.

"I'm Welsh."

That should suffice; he motions over a wait-rat. "Two pints of Guinness, diolch yn fawr." He turns back to Ace with a grin. "Grew up on beer."

As long as he doesn't shake his head, he'll be just fine.

Better 'n me. Had the tolerance of a gnat, m'first few months here." She admits, grinning. "Had some friends who thought that was funny as hell."

"Did they take unfair advantage of you?" He gives her a rather appraising look: she's small. Though he's not calculating how much Guinness it would take to get her loosened up, he can see how other less scrupulous men might. Not that he's of the highest moral standard himself, but he does have a care for the people he likes.

"Because I never would. Advantage, yes, but unfair advantage? No."

"Eh. Evidently I'm funny when drunk out of my mind. That, an' the local hangover cure looks sommat like Dalek guts, so they have great fun orderin' it for me. Ugh." There's a reason she avoids getting drunk nowadays. She knows the green goop will be waiting the next morning.

"I know the world's best hangover cure, my dear, and it's nothing to do with Dalek guts."

He flashes her a fairly brilliant smile: this is one of his favourite things to tell about. It's also one of the few times he gives up anything about himself without the other person having to wrest it from him as if it were permanently attached.

"No? That's always a plus. Don't suppose y'd be willin' t'share?"

Hey.

Means more chocolate alcohol.

Score.

"I would be delighted. The recipe is..." Glancing around the bar as if he's about to give away state secrets, he motions her closer so he can whisper into her ear. Hand cupped over his mouth, he tells her.

"Sleep late, have breakfast in bed, and take a long, long, hot bath."

Some say it works even better with two people taking the cure together, but in the world where he spends most of his time, that would be an unseemly thing for a Royal Wizard to suggest.

Ace snickers, shaking her head (she can still do it without wincing).
"Yeah. Tell that t'm'dog." Someone likes 5am wake-up calls. "Sounds appealin' though. Maybe if someone starts travellin' with me someday. Make'm think it's some sort of Gallifreyan ritual.

Just a Porthaven or Wales or Kingsbury or Waste ritual, really: wherever he happens to be, it's what he does.

"We put the dog out for the night where I come from, merch clws."

At least out of the bedroom: they do like to disturb the spiders and their hard-won webs, not to mention hung-over wizards.

But it's been a fierce long time since he woke up with anyone by his side beyond the spiders, and that's suited him quite well, diolch yn fawr.

"March claws?" The TARDIS translation program doesn't work here, more's the pity. "B'sides, couldn't put Magic out - there's only the Vortex out there, most times, an' then I'd be short a dog." Considering Magic's the only company she has on most of her journeys, that'd be something of a tragedy.

At least having a dog keeps her from being totally alone.

"It means pretty girl. I'm allowed to flatter you, aren't I?"

Take that away from him and he might as well be on a raft at sea with no sail and no paddle. "So I suppose you'll just have to try the Dalek intestines hangover remedy rather than mine. More's the pity. Another pint?"

He certainly doesn't need it, but that won't stop him from offering, buying, or drinking.

"One might think y'tryin' t'make sure I have t'drink that goop in the mornin'." She teases with an arch smile, then shrugs. What the hell.
"Alright, another round. I am a little better than I was, anyway."

He may have to crawl home, but he'll manage to do it whilst looking good; two more pints are ordered.

"Ace, Ace. What have you been up to? I don't always see you here... but I like it when I do."

It's curious to him that she's named her dog Magic, but at the moment he won't pry for details.

She seems lonely. Sometimes, alcohol makes everyone seem that way.

"It's... been a busy couple of weeks." She hedges, absentmindedly braiding a few loose wires while their drinks are being fetched. "Lots of travellin', for one reason or another."

"We've got that much in common, then." He, too, has been doing much traveling. Back and forth, back and forth: too much time in Wales. Too much deception and too little explaining.

No wonder a night out had seemed like such a grand idea. But before he has time to ponder the relative brilliance (or stupidity) of having tonight as a night off, the pints appear on the table; he lifts his fresh glass to Ace. "Cheers, Ace. Cheers to you; you keep me on my toes."

"Ta, Howl. 'Least I manage it somewhere, yeah?" She salutes him with the glass and downs a healthy portion of it. "So, is your castle that's not a castle really an' y'butler that's not a butler an'... what was it, mmm.... cleanin' lady that's not a cleanin' lady all doin' a'right?" At least she knows something of what's not in Howl's life?

"They're all doing purringly." He's almost tempted to ask if she'd like to see it sometime and meet the supporting cast, but no: he can't do that.

Can he?

No. But at least he can match her drinking, sip for sip, and that he does with great relish.

Well, that shouldn't be too hard, she takes it pretty easy after that first gulp. Greeting the dawn (in the relative sense) with a tall glass of green goop and a screaming headache isn't her idea of a good time.
"Sounds good. Always nice when things stay calm on the home front." Not that'd she'd actually know anything about that, unfortunately.

"On the rare occasion when they're actually calm, that's true."

Howl does know another hangover cure; it's just one he can't use on himself. The magic doesn't work that way. If he remembers, he'll make sure she doesn't have to drink the green concoction when she wakes.

Just now, though, he's got poetry on his mind. Dylan Thomas, to be exact; a first verse.

If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.

He knows full well that when he starts thinking moodily of Dylan Thomas, it's time to stop drinking. The poems all begin to sound like spells, and he gets lost in trying to unravel them, as if they were knitted together. Setting down the glass, he rubs his eyes.

"Have you another name, or is Ace all of it?"

"S'the only one I answer to." That's not completely true. She'll answer to other names. Just not favorably.
"Look, are y'sure you're alright?" She asks, eyeing him concernedly. "This isn't exactly the best place t'be hangin' about if y'not feelin' well."

"Just tired, that's all. I should be going back to my not-quite-a-castle, with my not-quite-a-butler and my not-quite-a-cleaning-lady... and my apprentice. But first, there's something I need to do." Standing, he leans forward but there's nothing out of order about it: he rests the tip of his index finger to her forehead and closes his eyes for just a moment. It takes all his focus -- especially in this state -- but he can feel the magic working; he knows it's done its thing.

"There." Letting his finger trace the line of her cheek, he smiles in a benign sort of way. "No hangover. That's the other cure."

With a tired smile, Howl nods. "Good to see you, Just Ace. Take good care. Save worlds carefully."

She nods, shortly. He's drunk. She'll let it go.

"Always do." No she doesn't. But it's easier if everyone else thinks she does.

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